


you set me on fire

by klefaeries



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: F/F, Queer Reader, Reader is ACE, Slow Burn, and use of sapphos poetry, arcee is a lesbian, copious amounts of making fun of the midwest because i live here and its hell, cybertronian lore dumps, if you dont like the use of queer in a positive light for an identity then please dont read this, in-depth conversations regarding sexuality and gender identity, more tags and characters will be added as story progresses, protective arcee, reader is a struggling musician and there will be a lot of my eclectic music taste, songfic (kinda), tldr this is gonna be really fucking gay because so am i, too many girl in red references because its hard not to, wlw reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klefaeries/pseuds/klefaeries
Summary: One poor decision leads to your entire life being upended in an single night. Witnessing something you probably shouldn't have, you're welcomed within the ranks of giant robot aliens calling themselves Autobots in order to keep you safe from their millennia-long enemies, the Decepticons. As you delve further into this strange new world, you find yourself growing closer to Arcee in ways you didn't think possible. The longer you know her, the more your heart sings, and the louder the music in your soul gets. Will you the song you two write together end in sparks, or will it die on your lips before the first verse ends?
Relationships: Arcee (Transformers)/Original Female Character(s), Arcee/Reader, Arcee/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	you set me on fire

**Author's Note:**

> okay hi uh so. yeah. im here. im queer. im doin the thing.
> 
> if you read my knock out series, this isn't part of the same universe, and it's going to have a bit of a different feel than that one did. im trying to make it as authentic as i can. im putting a lot of my own experiences regarding my journey in sexuality and gender identity in it and writing this for purely myself. so, the updates will be at my own pace, especially since i've started working again and barely have time to write.
> 
> this fic will heavily feature my own tfp oc whom i have had since i first watched the show back in 2015. i don't have an updated reference for her, unfortunately, but plan to someday commission a more accurate design. just know that she's hot. :')
> 
> not sure how long this will be but i've got the basic outline and most of it plotted out. im hoping it'll be longer overall than the knock out series.
> 
> important: the reader is asexual. there will be no explicit scenes or smut in this fic. 
> 
> ok, im done blabbing now. here's the first chapter. a bit shorter than i originally intended but i realized i got everything i wanted to say in the exposition down and if i tried to drag it out longer it wouldn't flow as nicely.

**"There's a place beyond the furthest cloud**  
**There's a message in the wind**  
**And when you dream that big**  
**And you're not afraid to live**  
**There's a place where all the stories begin**  
**Begin with you and me"**

**Carole & Tuesday**

_**Message in the Wind** _

_ This is a horrible idea _ , you think as you creep around the street corner on your tiptoes. 

But you’re going to do it anyway.

It’s below freezing, which is typical for February in Madison. You would actually be cold had you not downed half a bottle of rum over the course of one hour. The alcohol coursing through your veins combined with the thickest winter coat is doing a pretty good job of keeping you nice and toasty.

The former is also doing a pretty good job of keeping you from getting cold feet. No pun intended, of course.

The moon and stars are hidden behind a thick layer of clouds tonight. You think there’s supposed to be a round of snow sometime later tonight. Considering how it’s almost three in the morning, it’s highly likely it could happen at any moment. 

“Need to get this done and go back home and pass out,” you mumble to yourself as you stumble over a patch of icy sidewalk. The only thing keeping you upright is how you’re performing a one-woman mime show with the brick wall of the radio station and pushing your body up against it. The streets are silent, the only light comes from some dim street lamps whose bulbs flicker every minute or so. Not a car drives by. If this was Madison proper, you would never be able to pull this off. For once, living in the total outskirts is a blessing rather than a curse.

Your shoes crunch on ice and snow as you come to the window of the radio station. The inside is completely dark and you know that there are no cameras facing the street because less than twelve hours ago, you were inside.

Your fingers prickle with a mix of unease and adrenaline.  _ This is a horrible idea,  _ you think yet again, but you’ve made up your mind, and you’re going to go through with it.

It’s difficult to get out the bottle of spray paint from your bag and remove the cap while wearing thick woolen gloves, not to mention how sloppy your movements are from the rum. You’ve never actually been drunk before. Nor have you ever defaced private property.

There’s a first time for everything.

The paint is purple. Your favorite color. A bit of a calling card, perhaps. Not that the assholes at the station know this because they barely took the time to listen to your song, much less sit you down and play Twenty Questions. You shake it as hard as you can, breath coming out in white puffs as your breathing quickens with nervous excitement. 

You’re no artist. Doubly so when your senses are impaired by copious amounts of alcohol and the only light sources are crappy street lamps. Even so, you painstakingly create a passable image of a mermaid’s tail that covers the entire center of the radio station’s window, blocking out the words “KWTZ-FM: INDIE HITS.” The scales are fairly even and the curvature of the tail itself seems accurate enough to you. You step back and admire your work, glaring at the radio station’s name as you do so.

“You could have at least  _ listened  _ to my songs,” you spit out. “What’s more ‘indie’ than covering indie songs?! God, the music industry is so pretentious!”

Not for the first time since making the decision, you regret dropping out of college to pursue your passion for music. No matter how small the station is, they all have refused to play your songs. You’d had so much hope for KWTZ. It was in your hometown, and their website promised to view all unknown artist’s music with unbiased eyes. 

But of course, when you finally got the meeting scheduled, gathered the files for your favorite covers, and presented them to the team...they turned up their nose at you, claiming your style simply “wasn’t a good fit” for their broadcasts, and sent you out the door with so much as a second glance.

They were all men, too. In hindsight, you should have expected that, and not included so many girl in red songs. 

Deep down, you know you need to wean yourself off of covering other people’s music and start writing your own. That in doing so, maybe you’ll have a better chance of getting your voice heard. But the crippling fear of rejection and ridicule is strong and you just can’t find it in yourself to start creating rather than covering.

The one and only time you actually allowed yourself to write a song didn’t go so well. You still remember Ben’s stunned face as he read the lyrics you poured your heart and soul into. His anger at you for “leading him on” and refusal to accept the parts of yourself that you were at last embracing. His cruel laughter when you begged him to understand that you couldn’t lie to yourself anymore. You can still feel his grip on your wrist, so tight that you thought your bones would break, and his scathing voice hissing in your ear as he called you every nasty thing his shortsighed brain could conjure up.

Most of all, you can remember the way he told you that Sappho’s Siren was never going to live past your idiotic daydreams, and how his voice was so full of venom and spite that you might as well had been struck by a viper.

It’s because of Ben that you can’t let yourself trust people anymore. He had been your best friend before the two of you had started dating. And even though you know it’s not your fault—you  _ know  _ that figuring out your identity and realizing dating Ben wasn’t something you actually wanted was by no means intentional—you can’t shake the self-loathing off of your skin. It clings to you, even when you replay that day over and over again, and it was Ben who was being the hateful one. 

You’ve been so absorbed in the things of the past that you realize you’ve slid to the sidewalk and are leaning against the wall, clutching the bottle of spray paint and staring at the empty streets while looking at nothing at all.

There are remnants of tears freezing on your cheeks. You quickly wipe them away with your gloves and struggle to stand back up, inebriated brain swimming in a sea of rum. “Shit,” you mutter as the world lurches to one side and you find yourself remaining on the ground, snow starting to melt underneath you and seeping through the fabric of your jeans. 

You’re a mess.

This whole thing was so stupid.

Now you’re too sad and too drunk to get up and you’re sitting at the scene of your crime with a wet butt.

“Oh, great and wise Sappho,” you call out miserably into the silence of the winter night, holding your hands up in absolution, “send me a sign that I’m not going to be so goddamn  _ pathetic  _ forever, please?”

Sappho doesn’t answer. She’s been dead for over two thousand years, after all. She’s probably far too busy dwelling in the lap of luxury with a dozen nymphs feeding her grapes in Elysium. You can’t blame her for ignoring the drunken plea of every queer girl who has made incredibly poor decisions in life. Even if you have styled your brand name in her honor.

You sigh and wonder if you can get an Uber this late at night/this early in the morning. You start to fish around in your bag for your phone, doing your best to ignore the way your head is spinning, when you hear it.

A very loud bang that comes from inside the radio station. You’re standing up and staring into the window before you realize it, a twinge of fear prickling at the back of your neck. 

You see movement inside.

There’s another banging sound.

A very large shadow darts around inside, followed by a second, even larger shadow.

You barely have time to scramble around the corner before the station’s entire window completely shatters as two  _ things _ burst through it, glass glittering through the sky like stars. Some of the bricks around the window also become wedged free and tumble to the icy sidewalk as dust from the mortar billows like smoke into the air. You don’t know how you manage not to scream as you watch a scene unfold that you once thought would only be possible in science fiction movies.

It’s two robots.

They’re in a grapple of some sort, standing in the middle of the empty street as the smaller one has the larger one in a sort of headlock. The smaller one—smaller only compared to the other robot, because both are far larger than you—is about fifteen feet tall, slender and lithe, and the streetlights shine on its sleek frame. It's hard to tell from all the movement but it looks like it's painted in pretty shades of blue, pink, and black. The other robot is maybe twenty feel tall and is thicker and far curvier, if those are proper adjectives to use when describing something made of metal. Its body is coated in a deep shade of purple (almost the exact shade you used for the mermaid tail that is now completely obliterated with the window, you realize) and white. There’s something in its hand that you can’t quite make out in the darkness of the night, and the streetlights don’t illuminate it well enough with how much the two robots are moving as they fight against one another. 

“Come now, Arcee,” the purple robot is saying in the  _ hottest _ voice you have ever heard. It’s the atypical femme fatale voice; deep and alluring, and lightly accented in what you think is maybe Italian. “We can talk about this! No need for violence, darling!”

“Stuff a gear in your tailpipe, Plague!” the smaller robot angrily hisses in a (sadly unaccented) voice that is not as deep but also feminine and rather attractive, which is weird because they’re both robots. “I will  _ not  _ let you bring that back to Megatron! Do you have any idea what it does?!”

The purple robot—Plague—lets out a hearty laugh. From where you’re peeking around the corner, you realize she (for simplicity’s sake you’re assuming they’re both she’s for the time being) has eyes that seem to glow in the night, and are a bright radioactive green. “Better than you, I imagine. How a silly human got their fleshy little servos on it, however, I have no idea.”

“Of all the Cons to run into,” Arcee snarls as she somehow pushes Plague down onto the street, her hands around Plague’s neck as she practically straddles the other robot, “why did it have to be  _ you _ ?!” She has very bright eyes, too, only hers are a hue bordering on cyan.

They’re both pretty. Which is weird. Because they’re robots. Large talking robots. 

You must be more drunk than you initially thought to be hallucinating all this. 

_ Wait, does alcohol even make you hallucinate in the first place? _

Plague lets out a hearty, devil-may-care laugh. “How many times must we have this conversation? I’m not a Decepticon. I just work for one. Important distinction, darling. I’d happily work for your Optimus Prime if he paid me more than Megatron, you know!” 

“Never gonna happen,” Arcee growls as she uses one hand to reach for the object in Plague’s grasp. Plague lazily throws it towards where you’re crouched around the corner, and it rolls across the ice a few feet until it comes to a stop right in front of you.

“Oops, how careless of me,” the purple robot almost sings, and then she lunges forward and knocks Arcee off of her, swiping at her with metal fingers that are so sharp they’re almost like claws.

You look down at the object she threw. It’s a metal cube, a little larger than your hand, and it seems to be emitting a faint buzzing sound. It sounds almost like an electric fence that’s been turned on. You don’t think you should touch it. Odd symbols like nothing you’ve ever seen are etched into its surface. As you look at it long enough, you realize that there is a faint white glow that rises and fades within the symbols. 

You’re so entranced by the cube that you almost forget about the two robots engaged in combat. The sound of metal-upon-metal makes you jerk your head up to see Arcee and Plague jabbing out at one another with kicks and punches, both elegantly dodging one another’s blows like they know what the other is about to do moments in advance. It’s hypnotizing. 

Snow begins to fall from the sky in big flakes. Your rum is starting to wear off and even in your thick coat, you’re starting to feel the cold. But you can’t tear your eyes away from the predatory gracefulness of the two robots as they dance around one another; the sounds of their blows become muffled as the snowfall gets heavier, and it’s like a performance meant only for you. You can see the notes writing themselves in your mind’s eye. The cadenzas and crescendos, the harmonies blending together as you watch.

You probably should be terrified. The way the chill of the winter night starts to seep into your bones tells you that what you’re seeing is real, and that giant robots really are fighting in the streets. But it’s so fascinating that all you can feel is a sense of awe.

Until:   
“Enough of this!” Plague suddenly cries out, sounding annoyed and bored. “You and I both know that we’re far too evenly matched for either of us to actually win. I’m terribly sorry, darling, but I’m afraid I’ll have to play a little dirty.”

Arcee doesn’t give up on throwing punches and jabbing at Plague, who is still expertly dodging them or blocking them. Her movements falter ever so slightly, however, as she starts to say, “What are you talking about—”

Plague produces a vial of green liquid that’s almost the same color of her eyes seemingly from nowhere. She ducks around Arcee and tosses it at the radio station, where it sails into the broken window and lands somewhere within the dark interior. 

Almost immediately there is an explosion from inside the radio station. You can’t stop yourself from screaming as the cacophonous sound tears into your already-throbbing head. It feels like the ground trembles with the force of a small earthquake. Flames burst forth from the station’s interior and black cinders begin to mix with the snowflakes. The scent of smoke fills your nostrils. You can already feel the heat from the flames. The front of the radio station is a mess of crumbling brick and fire and through the ringing in your ears, you can hear a shrill smoke alarm going off somewhere inside. 

The sound of heavy footsteps crunching on bits of glass and snow and ice catches your attention and you find yourself looking away from the imploded remains of the radio station. The blast has thrown Arcee a few feet away. She’s kneeling on the street, holding her head in one hand and groaning. 

Plague approaches you. Or, rather, she approaches the metal cube in front of you.

You scramble back, desperately trying to sprint away and forget you ever saw any of this. But the combination of shock, alcohol, and horror makes it impossible to do anything more than just stand there numbly and gape with wide eyes as the purple robot saunters her way over to you. She towers over you and every movement she makes reminds you of a wolf stalking her prey.

She regards you with a flash of surprise that quickly morphs into cool indifference. “Why, hello there, human,” she greets in a voice that’s almost like a purr. “Were you here the whole time?”

You try to answer but the words are stuck in your throat. She’s so big and sharp and just blew up the fucking radio station. And now she’s right in front of you. And you have no way to defend yourself.

She smiles at your stunned silence. “Poor thing. You humans are so cute when you’re scared. Oh, Arcee, darling?” She turns around and raises her voice over the sound of the roaring flames. “I believe you’ve misplaced your human. Do come over here and retrieve her, yes? Now, if you don’t mind me…”

Plague bends down and plucks the metal cube from the ground. She raises her hand to her chest area, where two panels _ open up like a cabinet _ , revealing an empty space. She places the cube inside, the panels slide back to reveal the smooth glossy exterior of her purple finish, and pats you on the head with giant clawed metal hands. “ _ Arrivederci _ , darling. I hope I get to see you again.”

You don’t really know how to explain what happens next. She...transforms. Metal grinds and gears shift. Where there was once a twenty foot tall purple robot, there is now a sleek and incredibly fancy sports car on the street. The engine revs and the tires spin on the icy surface as it speeds away through the smoke and snow, disappearing around the corner and vanishing into the night.

Sirens begin to sound in the distance. You can barely hear them over the sound of your brain going into overdrive, trying to process what you just witness, as you stare in the direction that the car that was once Plague drove off to.

“Scrap.”

You spin around, holding the paint spray bottle in front of you like some deadly weapon. Arcee is staring down at you, her body marred with soot and scratches. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her face—for robots, both she and Plague are remarkably expressive—is twisted in an irritated grimace as she looks you over. 

“Um.” You somehow manage to find your voice, but it comes out small and trembling. “Hi.”

“What’s your name, human?” Arcee asks you, rather angrily, but you sense that your presence and subsequent witnessing of the fight between her and Plague was not supposed to happen.

“___,” you squeak out. You think that maybe you’re starting to have an anxiety attack now, because it’s getting hard to breathe, and your coat feels too heavy, and your skin feels too hot, and your head feels like it’s about to be the next explosion on the block. “A-are you gonna kill me now?” you ask shakily, still holding out the paint spray with your gloved thumb firmly on the trigger.

Arcee shakes her head, voice sharp and exasperated. “No. I’m an Autobot. We’re trying to protect humans, not send them to the scrapheap. That’s what the Cons like to do. And what you just saw? It makes you a prime target for them.”   
The wind is beginning to pick up and the snow is starting to fall in earnest now. The flames continue to rage and ash continues to swirl together with the snow and wind. The sirens are getting closer. “I-I dunno you’re talkin’ about,” you say, words slurring together as you shiver, stepping back a few inches from Arcee, “but I-I promise I won’t say anythin’ to anyone! I-I’ll forget any of this ever happened! I am—”

The alcohol and shock suddenly become too much for you to handle anymore.

Your vision blurs and the world tilts.  _ I am passing out, _ you think as you start to fall to one side, the paint spray bottle falling from your hand while you desperately try and grab onto the wall to support yourself.

You feel two arms come around your waist before you hit the cold hard sidewalk.  _ I’m being held princess-style by a pretty robot _ , you think in a daze, eyes rapidly fluttering open and shut as your head lolls to the side. You feel like you’re suspended in the air and at any given moment you’re just going to float up up and away. 

“Ratchet,” you hear Arcee say in an urgent tone somewhere above your head, and you decide that you really like the way her voice sounds. You want to write a song that matches the chords of her speaking. “I need a ground bridge, and I need one  _ now _ . The extraction of the frequency modifier didn’t go as planned. Plague was here first. Somehow the Cons knew about the relic before we did.”

There’s a tense pause, and then Arcee adds, “I have a human with me. She saw it all. I can’t just leave her here, in case Plague comes back.”

You think there’s a response, staticy and sounding like it’s coming over walkie talkie, but it’s hard to tell. Everything is in a fog. You’re too far gone, slipping into unconsciousness, and the last coherent thought you have is,  _ I wonder if she listens to girl in red. _


End file.
